


Hunting for Shadows

by passionate_crimes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Amnesia, Lost Identity, M/M, Mystery, Thriller, War Era, World War I, World War II, morally questionable experiments, more tags as we go, totalitarianism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionate_crimes/pseuds/passionate_crimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Think. Focus. Gather evidence, that always helps. Answer the Questions.<br/>One: Where am I? London, England, a voice immediately answers.<br/>Two: How did I get here? I'm not quite sure of that one.<br/>Three: Who am I?</p><p>After waking up with no memory, our hero finds himself thrown into a twisting journey through the sewers of a war-torn London, where he must solve a murder, disappearances, a conspiracy, and the mystery of his own identity--before whoever did it strikes again. But all is not what it seems, and not even a name can be trusted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Waking Up is More Traumatic Than Remembered, and Tea is Not to be Trusted

_Where am I? How did I get here?_

_Come to think of it... Who am I?_

Oh, my head...

Think. Focus. Gather evidence, that always helps. Or, at least I think it does...

My head is pounding, with an angry ringing sounding in my ear, beating with the rhythm of my heart. Each throb seems to increase the absolute _pain_ of it all. Upon opening my eyes to the rain falling angrily on my face and the blinding light of a nearby lamp post, the shrill whining and the sharp stabbing increases.

My lungs hurt as well. They’re burning, there’s fire in them: I can’t stand it, it’s burning!

Oh. I’ve been holding my breath. I let the air out of my lungs, and take a large, sharp inhale of the cold, fresh air. It stings my dry throat, yet it’s a beautiful relief.

I gasp desperately for a few moments, enjoying the simple pleasure of inhaling, and exhaling, before I remember the task I’ve set for myself. Answer the questions.

One: Where am I? _London, England_ , a voice immediately answers. Upon shakily getting up on my elbows, I can see a street sign at the end of the alley, illuminated by the painfully bright lamp post: “Baker Street.” Southern London, Westminster.

Two: How did I get here? Of this, I am not sure. I think I have it, for just a moment, but then it fades away. I remember a chamber, pain, someone laughing. I’ll come back to that one.

Three: Who am I?

I search desperately inside for an answer, but nothing presents itself... Every memory that appears is only a flash, and disappears quickly. A child’s room, the details absent, a man without a face, smiling mockingly, an abandoned magnifying glass lying on a desk, gathering dust.

The pain roars back - I seethe in agony. I groan and lean against the cool, brick wall, trying to ignore the throbbing. I run a hand through my hair, and feel a thick wetness. I put my hand in front of my eyes, try to see it in the darkness...It’s a dark liquid. _Blood_. Blunt force, most likely, a sharp object would have created a concentrated area of pain. No other considerable cranial injury, or at least not so far.

I hear a soft growling, and feel a horrible pang in my stomach. Hungry. No, _starving_. God, I need to eat...

I stumble out into the street, using the wall for support, towards the trash bins that are tucked neatly next to the building to which they belong. I throw one open violently, much too far gone to care about the noise, or the mess I’ll create by digging through it. I need something, anything.

Multiple medication bottles, mostly joint pain relief, and dietary supplements. Lipstick-covered tissues, an old makeup brush, a note written in a feminine fashion.

Elderly woman, then. Lives alone: there’s no evidence of a razor, cologne or anything that would suggest a man living with her.

Interesting, but not important. I continue digging. She has to have something edible in here, even a rotten apple core would do. I can feel tears prickling in my eyes in desperation and frustration as I search. I wonder absently how the hell someone is able to live without throwing _any_ food away.

“Excuse me?” a voice calls from behind me. It sounds meek, yet holds an underlying force of will. I whip around to see a small, older woman, wearing a modest middle class dress and folding her arms across her chest, pursing her lips as she regards me. It is truly terrifying. _(“Little old ladies would be the best spies, the best agents...No one dares lie to a little old lady,”_ someone says in my mind, although I can’t place anything else of the memory.)

She must see something, a flash of panic in my eyes, or the blood matted in my hair, or the general disgruntledness of my appearance, because after a moment she relaxes, her gaze becoming soft and motherly as she takes a step towards me. “Now look at you,” she tuts, shaking her head as she takes my hand in her own. They’re warm, I had not realised how cold my body was. “Listen, let’s get you inside...I’ll make you a cuppa. I’ve just put a roast in the oven, although I’m sure it’ll not be as good as your mother’s. With all these rations going about, I’ve had to make some sacrifices to the recipe.” She chuckles to herself.

“Rations,” I whisper to myself _._ Yes, that’s right, I remember reading about it in the papers, arguing about it with someone, our voices growing louder in frustration with each turn. We’re in a war, England is. It’s been on for a while. That would explain the lack of food waste.

The woman pays no mind to my confusion, instead leads me into her home, which is exactly like her: modestly painted, smells slightly of cinnamon combined with a distant scent of cooking meat, a soft light in a small chandelier hanging on the ceiling. It reminds me of home.

Where is home?

“Now, I’m Mrs. Hudson,” she says kindly, smiling reassuringly but staring at my bloodied head with worry. “And what’s your name, young man?”

That stops me. Name. A name, what’s my name? I _must_ know my name. I flail desperately through the cropped and distorted memories, looking for anything that sounds familiar, familiar enough to be something I was called.

I find something. I think I’ve got it.

“Edward,” I blurt, perhaps a bit too loudly, judging by Mrs. Hudson’s jump back. I’m not used to my voice, it’s deeper than I had expected. “Edward Teach!”

She smiles again at me. “Edward,” she repeats, nodding her head. “Isn’t it much too late to be out alone in the cold? And that cut...Where on earth did you get it?” She clucks her teeth again.

“I’m... not sure,” I admit. She doesn’t like this answer, apparent in the frown that replaces the smile she wore a moment before.

“Oh, dearie... clean yourself up. You’ll stay for the roast, and rest yourself,” not a question. “The bathroom is down the hall. I’ll show you to it, and I’ll leave some clothes out for you to change into afterward.”

My pining stomach growls in protest, but the decisive look on her face clearly states that I have no choice in the matter. _Clean up now, dinner later_ , as if spoken to a child who’s been out in the mud all day.

She leads me to the bathroom, and allows me to step inside before shutting the door softly behind me. I glance around the room for a moment. It’s like the rest of the house, modestly decorated, a repeating floral pattern snaking up the wall, a simple, porcelain sink and bath with brass knobs. The bath has a claw-foot base. Everything is completely clean, not a speck of mould in the entire room. Mrs. Hudson takes pride in her house, and the cleanliness of it.

I turn to the glass over the sink, realising that it’s a mirror, and examine myself for the first time that I can remember.

I’m pale, thin, my cheek bones jut out from my face almost morbidly. I have dark, messy, curling hair, and what I believe to be light eyes, though I cannot be certain in the poorly lit room. If I had to guess an age, I’d have to say I was in my mid-twenties. No noticeable wrinkles, nor any grey hairs.

I begin to peel off my clothes, noting in the mirror the dark, purple bruises just above my elbows on both arms. Upon removing my trousers I see there are similar bruises at my ankles, and horrid scabs at my knees. There are small flecks of blood, little cuts on my wrists. My fingernails are broken, and hold a considerable amount of grime under them. I furrow my eyebrows, as I run a hand through my hair again.

The blood is still rather wet, only drying at the tips. I must have woken up fairly soon after my beating, even taking into account the wet mist outside. I figure it must have been less than an hour.

I step into the bath, grabbing a small hand towel from the rack, and turn on the water. It’s scalding hot to my frigid body, and makes me flinch, but I keep it on, to reopen and flush out the wounds, as there’s already swelling, and an infection is at this point not needed.

Of course, physical pains are simple to figure out. What the real mystery is, is why I can’t remember anything of my life. Why can’t I remember? I try again, to search, but my now-fading headache throbs back into existence at the attempt.

Not remembering. Amnesia. That’s what it’s called. Retrograde amnesia, losing the memories of before an event, caused by the brain shaking, destroying its tissues, or by the conscious decision of the mind to forget an event.

The voluntary erasure of my entire life seems rather extreme. I’ll go with the former option then.

There is heavy trauma to my head, but it’s unlikely that that would have caused the amnesia. The nature of my other injuries, and the strange memory-image of a chamber combined with someone laughing seem to suggest that it was sabotage. But why would they have erased my memories?

I must be very important, at least to someone, I think as I gingerly wash the blood out of my hair, which stains the clear bath a bright pink. It might have struck me as poetic, if I weren’t so damn hungry.

I wash the rest of my body quickly, just enough to get rid of most of the grime that was covering me, hoping with an almost childlike fear that Mrs. Hudson won’t send me back in to finish cleaning properly.

Upon stumbling out from the shower and cracking open the bathroom door, I see she did indeed put folded, clean clothes in the hallway, right in front of the door. A purple button-down shirt and black trousers, she even thought to leave pants. I change, noting that the shirt and trousers are about two sizes too small. After some difficulty with the final shirt button, it suddenly occurs to me how strange it is that she has these clothes, given that she lives alone.

Perhaps she has grandchildren, who stay with her sometimes, and leave their clothes in the drawers so they don’t have to pack next time they visit. This scenario seems strangely familiar to me, and the scent of warm, salty sand comes with it.

But the clothes smell old, a hint of mildew clings to them. It’s been a while since anyone’s worn these clothes, or visited here at all.

Perhaps that’s why she’s taken me in.

I step down the hall, barefoot (she’s neglected to give me shoes), following the soft sound of humming into the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson is standing at the stove, pouring what seems to be tea into a green ceramic mug. A small plate of shortbread biscuits lies next to it, and the smell of onions, herbs, and meat roasting invades my nostrils.

My stomach growls loudly again, causing Mrs. Hudson to jump in shock, very nearly dropping her kettle. “Oh, you scared me, love,” she laughs softly, placing a hand to her heart. “I was just making a cuppa, would you like some?”

I nod, keeping my eyes on the plate, my mouth watering painfully at the prospect. She directs me to a chair at the table, and places the biscuits and the mug of tea in front of me.

I grab three and stuff them in my mouth, all manners forgotten in my hunger. I can barely even register their taste, I’m much too distracted. Upon swallowing I see that crumbs and drool are covering my lap, probably creating the impression of a savage beast. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson has turned her attention back to her roast, and has not noticed.

My throat is dry now from the biscuits. I reach for the mug of tea and take a large gulp, wincing when it scorches my mouth. It burns my tongue, and, just a moment later, my throat. I had apparently forgotten the caution required when dealing with hot drinks. I cough, forcing myself to choke down the liquid, and push the mug to the other side of the table.

I eat the rest of the cookies quickly, and do not attempt the tea again, eyeing it warily as my tongue begins to go numb.

“Alright, here you are, dear,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice comes from behind me, holding a meager plate of roast in her mittened hands. God, it smells delicious. She sets it down, and cuts me a slice.

I mumble a thanks. She nods appreciatively, but as I begin to eat desperately, only cutting half-heartedly before stuffing oversized pieces into my mouth, she starts to frown.

“Edward... when is the last time you’ve eaten?” she asks, her face one of a concerned mother.

“I dunno,” I say honestly, my mouth full.

Her level of concern visibly increases. “And do you have a place to go?” Her voice is soft, almost scared.

I stop chewing for a moment to consider her question. A place to go, a home, a safe house. Do I have one? I don’t know. The clothes I was wearing when I came in were ragged, looking like they belonged to a vagrant, and yet upon checking the labels in the bath, they turned out to be quite expensive items, though roughed up.

I try to focus directly on the concept of home, but all I come up with are flashes of a lawn, and trees, and skinned knees.

“No,” I murmur, looking down at my plate, momentarily distracted from any hunger.

“There’s a room upstairs,” she says kindly, sitting down next to me and putting a soft hand on my shoulder. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, as long as you need to get yourself sorted.”

I nod slowly, giving her a soft smile, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Really, though, I haven’t the faintest idea how I feel about her offer. Staying in this flat will do no good in trying to figure out who I am, or why I would have been attacked, which I must figure out soon.

But, as I hear the wind and rain pick up once again outside, I decide that staying at least one night here would not hurt.

I eat the remainder of the meal incredibly fast, and find myself sitting politely as she still works on her plate, perhaps out of politeness, or maybe because I don’t know what else to do.

It suddenly occurs to me that even such a small pot roast as this costs a handful of ration cards, something a woman like Mrs. Hudson probably would not take lightly, given the modesty of the rest of the home.

“Is this...a celebration?” I ask curiously.

“Well, I suppose you could say that,” she says with a small laugh. “An anniversary, you could say.”

No wedding ring on her hand, but the skin around her ring finger has the worn appearance of one who has worn it for years. She must see my puzzled look, and continues.

“My husband’s execution,” she says casually, with a shrug, as if she just mentioned the rain.

This is quite a bit of a stunning revelation, and I sit in shock for a few moments. Finally I nod and give her a smile of my own. “Ah,” I say, as if I understand, and stand to clear my place.

As I begin to carry the plates to the sink I can feel my stomach begin to ache and twist. I’m not used to eating so quickly, or so extensively, apparently.

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t allow me to wash my dishes, saying that I am a guest, and should be resting up, not slaving in the kitchen. But the way she looks at me, how she gingerly takes the plate from me, reveals it’s more that she doesn’t want _me_ to wash her dishes. Not that one could blame her, despite her large and kind heart, I am still a strange, homeless man she found on the street.

Instead, she leads me upstairs. The stairs creak every other step, and the wood looks worn.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, she pauses just at the door, just for a moment, before opening it and lighting a small lantern on the wall.

The room is clean and dark, even with the light on, smells of dust, yet is perfectly kept. There are no personal effects, just a mahogany wardrobe, and across the room, a white-sheeted queen bed with a metal frame. Anything else that may have been here was taken out long ago.

The sight of the bed suddenly reminds me how absolutely exhausted I am. I suppose it makes sense, having one’s memory wiped must be quite tiring. My eyelids begin to droop of their own accord, not going unnoticed by Mrs. Hudson.

“You get some rest, Edward, I’ll see you in the morning,” she says, patting my shoulder softly. “Breakfast is at nine tomorrow, but don’t feel like you need to wake up for it. I can make you something anytime, I have nothing to do all day.” She gives me another kind, motherly smile and a final pat before leaving the room, her heels clicking against the wood. She closes the door behind her, but leaves the light on, in case I wish to change into pyjamas, I suppose. I do not, instead just turning the light off myself and crawling into the bed fully clothed.

The mattress is soft, softer than I am used to. Stuffed with some downy feather, most likely. The sheets are thick and warm quickly. The pillows, however, smell of mildew.

I’m now facing the window, where the rain is hitting loudly. I realise after a moment that the window opens into the alleyway where I woke up. Rather interesting, I think. I must inspect it more closely in the morning.

As I listen to the rain, another sound echoes in. Laughter, from close by, a woman’s, clear and shining. It’s followed by a man’s voice. I cannot hear what he is saying, but he is cheerful, he’s laughing along with her. I listen in interest, staring across the narrow alleyway to the darkened building opposite.

At first I don’t hear anything more. Then a door slams, before the rain returns as the sole source of sound.

A light switches on in the window across from me. I still am unable to hear anything, but within a few moments a woman steps into view. My gaze gravitates towards her distractedly. She’s attractive, that much I can see, even from this distance. Blonde, pale, on the shorter side, very shapely. She’s nearly naked, wearing only a black bra, and black underwear with stockings.

She’s laughing, still. I can see that from her wide grin and the spasms in her chest. When she turns towards out the window, I lean further into my pillows, as if afraid she might see me even in my darkened room. But she is not looking for anyone who would be peeping, she’s grabbing the light-coloured curtains, and right before she can close them, another figure steps in, a man, and wraps his arms around her and kisses her shoulder and neck. I do not have the chance to see his face before the curtains are pulled shut.

I sink back down onto my pillow, curling up against the cold as I continue to watch their shadows. He’s kissing her again, she’s kissing back, his head is moving lower and lower on her body...

I close my eyes instinctively, as if giving them the privacy they deserve. I know I should not be watching this. When I open my eyes a few moments later, the man has the woman in his arms, and they both step out of the frame. I stare at the lighted, now empty window, although I do not know why. I need to think, to understand.

My name is Edward Teach. I was attacked by someone, forced into this state. Beyond that, I could be the Prime Minister for all I know.

The only thing I know of today is my name. A completely, utterly useless thing that cannot help me figure out absolutely anything.

But, it is a start.

The light goes out about half an hour afterwards, and the lightened window is imprinted onto my retinas. I continue to watch the building, and the rain, for a long time, despite how tired I was earlier.

I do not know when I drift asleep, but sometime later I wake up with a start, covered in sweat, the grin and laugh of a madman stuck in my head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which a Tunnel is Discovered, a Mystery is Curiously Stumbled Upon, and a Handsome Soldier Makes his Appearance

A loud clattering noise from downstairs wakes me with a start some time later. I jump into a sitting position, covered in sweat. Where am I? For a moment, I can’t remember...

The previous evening’s events come rushing back to me. My name is Edward Teach and I have amnesia. I am currently in a bedroom on Baker Street...221, I remember seeing the engraving on the door as I was led in. But what the hell was that noise? I doubt that Mrs. Hudson is up at this hour, or that she would make such noise if she were.

I creep out of the bed, deciding to investigate, wincing at how sore all of my muscles seem to be. More severe injuries than I first thought. It’s still rather dark, I think, glancing out at the grey sky as I step out of the room, and down the stairs. It cannot be later than six in the morning, judging by the light, and the lack of any traffic sounds outside.

A shiver runs through me as I reach the landing. There’s a draft. Strange, I think. Given Mrs. Hudson’s age, she probably has aching joints; I would have assumed that she would make sure to block any chill from coming in, and I can’t remember any from the night before.

I decide to follow the cold air, towards the kitchen. It’s where the noise seemed to be coming from, too.

The door creaks when I open it, and reveals the gloomy, chilly room. At first glance, it seems like nothing is out of the ordinary--no pots or pans lying on the floor haphazardly, no broken glass. I’m confused for a moment, until I see something, a fruit (an apple, I think) on the table. I walk towards it, and pick it up.

My initial thought was correct; it’s an apple. There’s a bite in it. A single bite. It wasn’t here last night, not when I left, and with the rations, I’d certainly doubt that Mrs. Hudson would leave an apple only partially eaten. Who else had been here?

Before I’m able to analyse this properly, another draft gusts through me. It’s coming from my right, behind the table. I walk hesitantly over, my feet padding softly on the tiled floor.

I’m expecting a crack in the wall, an open window, something of that nature. Instead, I see an overturned block of the floor, a dark hole leading down from it. It seems like a tunnel of some sort.

Mrs. Hudson has a secret passage from her kitchen? Interesting.

Just the darkness and the cold air spilling from it sends chills down my back. It seems sinister, and dangerous. I should not go in, especially in my current state. There could be an ambush, someone could be waiting there to kill me, or worse. My intuition tells me to immediately back away, every sign pointing to danger.

But, so far as I’ve noticed, it seems my character likes to ignore these signs.

I lean down, staring into the abyss, then sit, dangling my legs over the edge, when my feet catch on something. There are steps, metal rungs bolted to a wall, it seems, creating a makeshift ladder. Very interesting… How many trips through this passage would necessitate the addition of a ladder? And where would it lead?

My first thought is to immediately go down and explore. How can I be expected not to want to see the secret tunnel under the house I’ve come across?

But how the hell would I get back?

A Greek myth suddenly comes to mind: A man in a maze, and a maiden handing him a ball of twine to unravel as he travels through it, so he may find his way back. Perhaps that’s just what I need for this. I spring up, and begin opening various drawers throughout the room, finally coming up with a large ball of string. Perfect. I rush back to the hole in the floor, and begin my descent, counting each step I take.

The pathway gets dark quickly; I cannot see anything within ten rungs. Oh, and the smell is horrible, I have to breathe through my mouth to keep from gagging. It must be a sewer of some kind.

Thirty-five rungs later, my right foot hits water. I jump in surprise at the cold, flinching as a shiver runs through me. Perhaps I should have put on shoes before this endeavour. Too late now, I think as I lower my foot again. There’s ground about ankle deep, and I recoil again as I feel slime and dirt. Oh, this is disgusting. I plant both feet quickly down, before I can change my mind, shuddering.

I quickly tie one end of the string to a rung at about eye level, or what I think is eye level, as I still cannot see a thing.

Which way to go, then? There is no visible light in either direction, and I have no idea where each passage ends. I have no way of knowing how my decision will affect the outcome.

On a whim, I pick the right, ready to unravel the string on my way.

The tunnel twists and turns, and I stumble blindly along, grasping onto the brick walls to keep from falling into the fetid water.

Time is passing, I realise unconsciously. My feet have gone numb, and my teeth chatter in the frigid air. How long has it been? I still have a fair amount of string, and my internal clock suggests the world above me is coming alive with soft sounds, as families gather in their kitchen for breakfast. Women with their clicking heels, children screeching and laughing, dogs barking.

And yet I am still in the dark.

More time passes, and a patch of light shines from above. I shy away from it instinctively, forgetting what I am looking for.

Oh! Light, a passage up, exactly what I have been searching for! I grin and laugh to myself, feeling tempted to jump with joy. It is perfect timing as well, as I am nearly at the end of the ball of twine.

I rush towards the passage upwards, feeling pleasantly surprised to find a set of iron rungs once again. I tie the remaining piece of string, and start my way up, stumbling as I try to get feeling back in my feet, which are rather numb after submersion in the cold murky water.

It takes half the amount of time ascending as it did descending, most likely because of my eagerness to be out of the sewer. Within half a minute I am directly beneath the light, another hole in a floor.

Hoisting myself up, I blink and try to become accustomed to the abrupt brightness, and then to figure out where I have emerged.

My first glance reveals that I am up against a wall, with a metal locker in front of me. Given that it is crooked in its alignment, and taking into account the dark scratches on the floor, it seems it has been moved from against the wall. I shuffle to my feet, and survey the rest of the room.

A metal table and a gurney lie in the center of the room under a heavy light, which is turned off at the moment. The room otherwise is relatively empty: cabinets line one wall, and at the far end of the room bloody medical equipment lies in a sink, waiting to be washed.

I find myself smiling again. I’ve landed in a hospital, in an operating room, it seems. The locker I had seen on my way in has been moved, to hide the incriminating hole, I would think.

This just gets more and more interesting, I think, pushing the locker back into place with some difficulty. A passage from the sewers to a hospital, what on earth for? A smuggling operation? Stealing painkillers and selling them on the black market? Or something else?

Whatever the reason, I’m sure it cannot be anything less than sinister.

As I think over the situation, I fail to notice the footsteps down the hall, only becoming aware of them when the door opens. I freeze, hurriedly scanning the room again. There’s nothing I can hide behind, it seems I’ll have to negotiate...

A young nurse walks in with her hands full of trays, which in turn are full of medical supplies. When she sees me, she gasps and drops everything she’s holding, sending scalpels and surgical saws across the floor. Her entire body is frozen, except for her mouth, which is opening wider in preparation for what seems like it is going to be--

“Don’t scream!” I plead at her, holding up my hands in panic. I can’t risk having hospital security or superintendent come, especially if I could be arrested for trespassing (could I be arrested? I don’t have any memories for these sort of laws. Either I don’t know them, or I ignore them).

“I...” she mouths, her eyes widening and darting around confusedly. She looks rather like a fish out of water. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I quickly say, walking towards the door, still wanting to keep her calm. “I’ll be out of your way soon. Just tell me: Which hospital is this? And where is the nearest exit?”

The nurse blinks at me. “St Bart’s. How do you not know that?” she sounds incredulous. I suppose when someone sneaks into a hospital, they ought to at least know which one. As I near the door, she hurries back to it, pressing her back to it to keep me from leaving. “No! I--I’m not going to let you leave. Tell me who you are!”

“Does it make a difference?” I ask.

“Yes, it does!”

“Too bad.” I reach around her to grab the doorknob, but she covers it with her body before I can turn it.

“Tell me!” she repeats, her previously scared eyes now looking determined and fiery.

I groan in annoyance, and glance at her out of the corner of my eye. There must be some way out of this.

She’s young, and attractive, with strands of chestnut hair hanging loose from her nursing cap. Many girls become nurses during wars, to help their country in any way they can, given that they cannot join the action. Patriotic, then, or at least sympathetic. A wedding band is on her ring finger. Married, and a nurse in a wartime hospital. Her husband is most likely in the army: she is young so he most likely is as well; most young men are the ones foolish enough to volunteer, and the first to be drafted, and young wives typically do not work unless they have to. Why would she be nursing in a place where the crippled or dying body of her husband could come through?

Unless she is hoping to see him. He could be dead, or missing. Taking care of the men here makes her feel closer to him, and if he turns up in the hospital, she would be the first to know.

“Did they ever find his body, then?” I ask, turning my head innocently towards her. Her shock is immediately apparent.

“I--What? Who? How did you--?” Her eyes widen again and her mouth drops open, adding more to the fish analogy. But she does not move from the door.

“Your husband, obviously.”

“I’m sorry?” Her voice becomes almost shrill. “How did you know about that?!”

“Well, why else would you be here?” I ask nonchalantly. Isn’t it obvious? How can she be surprised?

“I--I don’t understand, how you know that, or why you would find it relevant,” she splutters, blinking wildly to get rid of the tears that are bordering on her eyelashes. “But, no, they didn’t. He’s missing, not dead, there’s still--Who are you?!” She still does not move, in fact leans harder against the door. I suppress a groan. So much for that, then.

“Edward Teach,” I say casually, offering her a smile. “A pleasure, now, if you’d mind, you’re in front of the door. I’d also appreciate a torch, and a ball of twine, if you have those.”

“What the hell do you need those for?” she asks, still shrill and hysterical.

“A rather long story. Now, if you please,” I prompt, continuing to smile, although I’m not sure why (“Smiling always gets you what you want,” a voice tells me).

“There’s...a headlamp on the operating table...I suppose it won’t be missed,” she murmurs, still confused, but seeming to have calmed down from her hysteria (although she is still leaning inconveniently against the door). “Twine...Why do you need twine? I can’t...We’re a hospital, we don’t have twine.” She looks in shock, probably answering my questions on default, before remembering that she doesn’t know who I am, and that I’ve already figured out her darkest secret.

“Ah, that’s fine, I’m sure I can find it somewhere else,” I chirp, grabbing the headlamp off the table, throwing it in the air before catching it again, and pocketing it. “Thank you so much for your help, I’ll just be on my way, then, Mrs...?” I smile expectantly at her as I walk towards the door, although I really couldn't care less. The important thing is that she’s stepped from the door.

“Hooper,” she says meekly, so quietly that at first I think she is making owl noises. “Molly Hooper. But, I still don’t understand...How did you know about Matthew, how did you get here?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I repeat, pushing her slightly out of the way, almost sighing in relief as I’m finally able to open the door. “Very sorry to bother you, Mrs. Hooper. Good day!” I tip my head in farewell, and walk off, leaving her still standing in front of the door, seeming completely dumbstruck by the experience.

I cannot go back to the sewers; Molly will probably stay in the operating room for quite a while, to see if I come back. Apparently I’ll have to travel topside now.

I walk down the hall as casually as I can, whilst wearing wrinkled clothes and no shoes. Through a few people turn their heads as I pass, I manage to find the exit without anyone calling out or demanding me to stop. Upon attempting to open it, I discover it’s much heavier than I am used to. For bomb threats, I think, to keep the doors from blowing in.

Some of the hospital staff is smoking outside, they only stare at me in surprise when I walk out, but I hurry past them.

It must be around eight in the morning. There are a fair amount of people bustling around the streets, men in suits holding briefcases and boys in caps rushing past on bicycles. As far as I can see there’s no one just loitering, although, given that it is a bomb-threatened square, I can see why.

People have slowed to stare at me. The sight of a vagrant is much less common to them, I suppose, given that they’ve created an almost biblical parting around me as they walk past. Too much attention, I need to get out of sight.

An alleyway appears to my left, I duck into it the moment I see it. Immediately the foot traffic seems to have forgotten me, no one follows me or calls out.

It’s a through street, opening onto a much quieter, residential cul de sac. The houses are still cozily boxed together in the cold morning fog, most of their occupants asleep or letting the morning drift away. It gives off a relaxing, calm atmosphere, I think as I peek out.

Or, at least, I think for the first two seconds. Then an ear piercing whistle shrieks through the yards.

“On your feet!” a man shouts. I press myself against the wall on an impulse, to hide from his threatening tone. A childlike fear, I remind myself, his voice cannot hurt me.

He’s a military man, of some rank, obviously, I think, to calm myself. Shouting commands to his lower officers. In a residential neighbourhood, in London, where no action is taking place?

Training, I remember suddenly. It’s a new implementation by the government, having army trainees serve two months in potentially endangered cities before being shipped out to the front. A completely stupid idea, I can remember thinking when finding out, why the hell delay their deaths, when they know that they will die? (I can also remember being lectured for this opinion, thought of as heartless. Maybe I am, so far I have no sympathy for anything, save for perhaps Mrs Hudson and her hospitality)

I dare to look back into the street again. Sure enough, there is a small, orderly formation of men in uniform, and a middle aged, menacing looking man in front of all of them, his back to me, shouting orders to the privates. Assigning patrol locations, I suppose for them take post at, since with each order, two men at a time leave the pack to march down to their designated perch.

“Stamford! Watson!” the bald-colonel man shouts. “Take the backside of the hospital, keep your eyes peeled for planes, we’ve received tips suggesting that the Enemy will strike today!”

“Sir, yes Sir!” Two voices cry in unison before two men in the front salute and begin to march towards the alley I am hiding in.

There is barely enough time for me to jump into the shadows, and even then I feel incredibly exposed.

But they do not notice me. They walk right past me. The moment they reach halfway across the street, the two men stop their march, relax into an everyday man’s gait, let their arms cradle their guns casually, and chuckle with each other. I find myself drawn to follow them, although I haven’t a clue why.

I can only tell so much of them from the back. One is heavier, walks with a strange beeline, almost shuffling. The other is shorter, but even with my distance I can see his uniform clinging to a muscular frame, and his posture is straight, even when relaxed… And, he has a remarkable bottom.

Which, of course, brings up the obvious question: Am I a homosexual? It seems like a logical possibility, I had no arousal at the half naked woman last night, nor any stirrings at seeing an attractive nurse this morning, yet I find myself glossing over this man’s body with interest. Hm. Fascinating… That does give a bit of a motive for resentment of me, I suppose.

“Naughty boy, John,” the heavier one chuckles to the handsome one. “I saw you coming here from Mary’s direction. Just a chat that lasted a bit longer than expected, then?”

John chuckles and shoves his friend playfully. “Just don’t tell her Dad, he’d have my head!”

“Think he’d come all the way from India to kill you if he found out?”

“I don’t have a doubt that he would,” he laughs.

He has a girlfriend. Of course he does, I think in annoyance and disappointment. An attractive soldier, about to be sent off to die in a war that doesn’t have anything to do with him, it’s precisely out of a romance novel. The perfect man, in this war torn era.

The two men continue to laugh and talk about trivial matters with one another as they walk (The larger one’s name is Mike, and lives with his mother, who treats him like a child, apparently), and not once do they look back to see if they’re being followed. Either they’re extremely incompetent, or I’m rather good at this following thing.

I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and go with the latter, as, really, I am rather good. I haven’t made a single sound. Even the sparse people wandering about on the streets haven’t looked at me, even though I am not in the shadows, and only a small distance from the two. (Blending in plain sight, doesn’t that need practice? Yet it’s second nature to me. My identity is becoming more interesting by the moment)

The men turn a corner, and stop at the hospital building, not far from where I left it. I stop short, just at the corner, so I can watch them without having to worry about them seeing me.

They both lean against the wall, John being the closest to me, finally giving me the chance to look at him properly.

My hypothesis of him being as attractive as his backside is proven correct immediately. He has blonde hair, and a strongly structured face. His eyes are a kind, dark blue, although it is hard to tell from this distance. He has lost all of his baby fat, yet has not started to gray or wrinkle. He is probably closer to twenty than thirty, in the portion of life when youth is everything, very little stress, physically and mentally. (The war will change all that, of course, I think bitterly.)

And, he looks… incredibly bored. Like he would rather be absolutely anywhere, but here. Not that I can blame him. The job of a watchman is not strenuous or entertaining by any standard.

Mike continues to talk to him, and John smiles and laughs when appropriate, but it is obvious that he does not care, only pretending to for Mike’s benefit. Instead, his attention seems to be lost in his own world, gazing off absently into nowhere.

I could stay here possibly all day, watching John, picking up every clue there is about him, but I really should not. There are more important things I must do, like go back to that dreadful sewer. I tighten my grip onto the headlamp, reminding myself that at least now I’ll be able to see.

Of course, on the lists of things I really don’t want to do is go back into the hospital. Molly Hooper has probably alerted the staff of a strange, barefooted man who is suspect to turn back up. Which means I’ll have to find another way in.

It hits me rather quickly. It’s a sewer, isn’t it? And unless it’s a separate sewer from the rest, I can go in through any sewer grate, can’t I? It’s so obvious, I could slap myself.

With this idea in mind, I duck behind the two men, who are too lost to even notice me (some guards), and search for an opening, something that will lead me down.

Luckily, I do not have to go far. I turn to the square in the hospital grounds, and see a grate, in the middle, with a small trickling of water flowing down into it. Or, at least what I hope is water, I think as I look up and realise that I’m above patient rooms, an easy place for one to dump his chamber pots.

I shudder and try to dismiss the thought from my head as I work the gated metal open. It is quite difficult, it seems that the metal has rusted to the cogs, making it almost impossible to move. I pull with all my might.

I almost go flying a few moments later, when the grate gives way with a loud “Clang!” The momentum of the grate flying off sends me tumbling backwards with the useless grate.

Once I’ve recovered, I turn on my headlamp, take a final breath of fresh air, and start back in the tunnel once again.

There are not rungs here, instead makeshift grooves, missing or scraped away brick, making it even harder to climb down. The holes barely fit the ball of my foot, and I have to stop at each one to steady myself.

Below the industrial heat of London, the temperature here decreases quickly, in mere moments I can see my breath in the light of the lamp, and I shiver involuntarily.

At this point, I’ve only been focusing on the wall ahead of me, making sure to step in the right place, to keep from falling into the disgusting muck. Now, I grip onto the holds as hard as I can and look down.

I almost vomit at the sight of the stagnant water, which is a shade of brown that I have never seen before, shines as if oil has been spilled on it, and contains multiple pollutants, including an old boot, a large branch of a tree, and a rotting carcass of a sewer rat. Oh, God.

I cringe as I reach the ground, trying to ignore the animal corpse behind me, and not think about the things I possibly stepped through in the dark before.

Not thinking about things is harder than expected, I find, as I wretch and hold onto the wall desperately. Rather good that I haven’t eaten, otherwise it would just be another disgusting obstacle to avoid in this horrendous passage.

With this plan in mind, I trudge forward in the now calf-deep water, in the direction I saw the hospital on topside, and hope I don’t come across any more rotting things.

Aside from a few bones, formerly belonging to a mouse or rat, there is nothing terribly offensive, which gives me at least some solace. The depth of the water is decreasing, now just to my mid ankle.

I travel for some time, although I once again do not know how long, passing the starting point of my journey and continuing on, when I see another source of light, from above, way off in the distance.

I turn off my light, to see if it’s not just a reflection. It isn’t. Rays of sunlight are pouring in, shining on a mass, lying in the middle of the light.

I step forward towards it in interest, realising as I draw near what appears to be a body of man.

It is a body, I see as I reach it. He’s lying on his stomach, and is in an army uniform. I lean down and roll him to his back.

Large ears are the first thing I notice. A large, square face, and huge ears. How did they expect him to survive in the front, with those searchlights?

His face is a testament to his final moments, and whatever they were, they must’ve been terrifying. His eyes are open wide in shock, his mouth open, as if he’s about to cry for help. I grimace, this is surely not a pleasant place to be dumped.

Shaking that thought off, I set to examining the body.

He’s young, probably mid twenties. Given his uniform, he’s most likely a recruit. Stiff, rigor mortis has already set in. Places death at at least an hour, then. I run my hands over his body, trying to find a wound, an external cause of death, but there is none. It seems like the man just fell over and died. A heart attack? Possible, but highly unlikely. He is young, and was training for military service; they would have checked for a weak heart. And, why would he be here, in a sewer, unless there was foul play involved?

I look for his dog tags, but find none on his person. There is a name tag, however, clipped just above his left breast pocket. I unclip it from his shirt. “H KNIGHT” it reads. I’ll have to look him up later, perhaps sneak back into the hospital and check his records, search for any heart conditions.

Pocketing the tag, I glance about the area once more, taking a moment to glance up towards the grate. It’s too small to have dumped a body of his stature through, so that would eliminate that option. However, there’s no other entrance to the sewers nearby. How did the body even get here? It seems odd that someone would purposefully place him right below the grate, as well. It would take quite a lot of effort, instead of just throwing the corpse by the opening, wherever that is.

Unless they expected someone to find the body.

Who the hell would they be expecting to be here?

Oh. Me.

A message, for me, then? A threat? What are they threatening? That I’ll end up like Knight, murdered, face down in the rubbish? Hasn’t erasing my memory been enough?

What the hell is going on? I find myself incredibly frustrated about my predicament, because there must be answers, there must have been things that I knew, but right now it’s like beating my head against a brick wall.

I stand up slowly, muttering a prayer under my breath as I step away from the body. I don’t recall myself being religious, but it’s the least I can do for him, given his circumstances.

With that I turn my attention to the next object of curiosity, the grated opening to the world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Our Soldier Gets a Purpose, and Another Lost Soul is Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait, guys! Life and proofreaders are fickle things.

While the vertical bars are too thin for any murderer to push Knight’s body through, I think, with my frame, I can just barely squeeze through. Sure enough, when I hold my breath and do a bit of contorting, I manage to slip out of that dreadful tunnel.

I shudder a bit, and then take in my new surroundings. The sewer leads out to a filthy bank, something I really should have expected. When I turn back to the grate, I see that the sewer’s stone architecture has a large protrusion to the side of it, that looks like some kind of large, square room is inside the walls, just off to the side where I just was. Odd. I didn’t see anything with a cubical design, nor any doors. I log it into my brain for future thinking, and move past it, going towards the buildings a few yards in front of me.

It’s some sort of building complex, I see as I draw near, one that’s gated. However, the gates are open, and I take that as an invitation to walk in. A few steps in, however, and someone suddenly comes in from behind a truck. It’s my attractive soldier, John Watson, I think with some amusement. and shock. Meeting each other twice in the same day, in London? Quite a twist of fate.

At the sight of me, he jumps, and takes a moment to draw his weapon. Some guard. Somehow being face to face with the barrel of a gun isn’t frightening to me, though, and I only raise my hands to my head automatically, as if it’s routine.

“Who are you?” he barks. He’s not afraid, I notice with interest; in fact, his eyes are shining unlike they were at his post.

“Edward Teach,” I say immediately, relaxing slightly. Why am I relaxing? Why did I tell him my name? I don’t know if he can be trusted.  _ Idiot! _

His face holds no recognition, however, instead just becomes more intrigued. “How did you get here?” he asks.

“I… walked?” I try. “The gate was open.”

John frowns at that, almost winces, and I realise he’s the one who’s left it open. Really a terrible guard in that case, I can’t help but smirk.

“...  _ Why _ are you here, then?” he demands, trying to cover up his mistake.

“I haven’t the slightest,” I admit. “But, while I have you, John, I’d like to ask you--”

“How did you know my name?” he asks, his eyes bugging out, and raises his weapon more. Ah, right. I’m not supposed to know that. Should come up with a story, then.

“Is it? Oh, good. I was hoping so, being that the tag on your uniform has ‘J’ as your first initial,” he looks down at his uniform, “and being that John is the most common name beginning with J, given your age, and I thought I would give it a shot.” I finish with a smile.

He blinks in surprise again. “I--” he cuts himself off, and shakes his head, lowering his weapon slightly. He does not try to speak again.

“Anyway, John, being that I have you here, I’d like to ask you if you knew a man named Knight,” I say, prompting him to get out of his daze.

“Why the hell should I tell you?” he asks, standing at attention again. Smart boy. Not very bright when it comes to military housekeeping, but he does quite well under stressful situations.

“Because I’d like to know,” I respond, shrugging, my hands still in the air.

John looks as if he’s considering, if only for a moment, when he shakes his head again, firmly. “No. I won’t tell you.”

_ Damn _ . “Oh? Well, in that case, pleasure to meet you, John Watson!” His name is fun to say, I think as I turn and begin to walk away. 

“Wait! You can’t leave yet!” he calls out after a few steps on my part. Ah, there it is. The boy who does not want an adventure to disappear from him. Wonderful.

“Can’t I?” I ask, turning back.

“I--who are you?” he asks again, taking a step towards me. “I mean, yeah, your name is Edward Teach. But, that’s not really an answer. Who are you, and why are you here?”

“Honestly,” I admit. “I have no idea.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that I honestly have no idea who I am, John. I thought that would be rather obvious, given that I said it.”

“... What?” he asks, looking incredulous, and confused. He eyes me curiously. “How can you not know who you are?”

“That is exactly what I am trying to figure out.”

John finally lowers his weapon, and takes a step towards me. “And how does Henry figure into all of this?”

Henry. Henry Knight. Another good step. “He doesn’t, at least not directly. I just found him dead not twenty minutes ago.”

John stares for just a moment, not understanding, before his eyes widen and his mouth drops. “What? Dead?” he asks, as if he hasn’t heard correctly. “But, he was just shipped off a week ago… How could he be dead…  _ here _ ?”

“Well, he is. Did he have a heart condition, by any chance?” I ask, leaning forward slightly.

“A-a heart condition?” he repeats. “No, of course not. What--why, what’s happened to him?”

“Not sure,” I say calmly. “His body has no signs of any attack, though. The logical assumption here would be a heart condition, a death that wouldn’t show up somewhere on his body. Unlikely, but I thought I might as well ask.”

John still looks panicked. “Oh my God,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I mean, we all knew there was a chance we were going to die, obviously, but, in London? A-and, we just saw him, we were all having drinks and saying goodbye to him, I--Oh my God.” He’s blabbering, natural for someone who’s just heard about a friend’s death.

“I am very sorry for your loss,” I say, although I really couldn’t care less. This, I realize, is where the conversation would naturally stop. I’ve gotten Knight's first name, and an affirmation of his health prior to his death. I should leave John to his grief, to understand what I’ve just told him, and to continue on with his duties. Yet the thought of pulling away from this bright, gorgeous man now, when I likely will never see him again, seems like a tragedy in its own right.  “Although, it really would mean a lot to me -- and to him, I’m sure -- if you help me track down who did this to him. You know more about the military complex than I do, and you’d be a true hero when we find the culprit. Would you like to help me?”

“How can I trust you?” he asks, staring at me with wide eyes. Not a direct refusal, though, I note. “How do I know that you’re telling the truth, that Henry’s dead, or that you didn’t just kill him? Or that you’re not just going to kill me?” Very clever.

He does have a good point there, I realize. “I suppose you can’t,” I admit after a moment of consideration. Perhaps I’ll get points for honesty. “Unless you’re the type of man to take me for my word.”

There’s that inner struggle again. I can see those two parts, the child desperately wishing for an adventure, and the rational adult warning of the danger. 

“I don’t think a civilian like me would be able to overpower a soldier like you,” I continue. It is a large ploy to compliment him, admittedly, but it’s also true. He has more muscle mass than I do, and has gone through extensive training. I imagine I would be able to outrun him, but an offensive attack will not help me here.

He takes this into account, and I can see his adult yielding.

“I-I can’t leave my post!” he insists, a last ditch attempt from the responsible adult to stop this madness.

"Yes, you can," I smirk. "And you will."

John blinks, appearing to be caught off guard by that statement. “How do you know that?” he asks.

“Rather obvious, isn’t it? You’re almost bursting with excitement now, when just a moment ago you looked as if you were about to sleep in your boots. And, what other reason would you have to join the army? We’re not desperate enough for a draft, not yet. You could possibly need the money, the state of your shoes offers evidence for that, but look at that class ring. You’re high class enough to get one, and young enough to continue to wear it. And is that a real jewel inside?” he looks down to his hand, as if to check, and nods. “Rather expensive for a man down on his luck, isn’t it? Well-off family, then. You are bored, have always been bored, because where’s the fun in being upper-middle class? You have decided that getting killed in a war you do not care about is much more interesting than putting your education to use with a career and waiting to die of old age. Child’s play.”

John blinks, opens his mouth, closes it, shakes his head, and opens his mouth again. “And you could just tell that? Just by looking at me?” he asks incredulously. 

“...Yes.” Why does everyone find this surprising? “Isn’t it obvious?”

John blanches, and shakes his head wildly again. “No!” he insists. “I’ve never heard of anything like it! That’s...That’s amazing!” There’s a small smile at the corners of his mouth, despite his attempts to hide it.

The compliment creates a swelling of pride in my chest, completely involuntarily, despite it being hyperbolized and a dull one. “...Is it?” I finally ask.

“Yes! Really… fantastic!”

“Well, I’m glad I could impress you,” I say, only half sarcastically. “Now, are you coming with me?” I wave my hand towards the direction I’ll be going.

He falters, and grips his arm tightly as he glances between me and the fortress. “I can’t,” he mumbled. “I have to stay here.”

I’d almost be disappointed, if he hadn’t already shown his colours so brilliantly. “That’s a shame,” I sigh, giving him a sad smile. “Well, goodbye, John. Thank you for your information.” I give him a wave, and turn, counting the seconds in my head.

It takes longer this time, but, after about ten paces John’s voice cries out again. “Wait!” he calls, and I can hear his heavy footfalls as he runs to reach me. Shorter legs, I think. Harder to keep up with my larger gait.  _ Right on cue _ .

At first, I don’t even slow down, and let him work to catch up to me.

“Okay, you were right about me!” he says. “I get bored. I want to do something important here, and--  _ Could you please stop walking _ ?!” 

I stop obediently, leaving him to jog a few more moments before realising what’s happened. 

“Erm, right, thanks,” he says, taking a moment to catch his breath. “Um… I mean, you’ve got me all right. I get bored with all the menial stuff we have to do here, and this seems interesting. I want to help you. I want to help get justice for Henry. He was a nice bloke, definitely didn’t deserve this. If people are getting killed here, the soldiers who are about to ship out, I want to help!”

“Even if I just plan to kill you?” I ask, smirking.

John frowns. “Right. Um, I’ve got a gun, I’ve been training to fight off men who want to kill me,” he says, as if he were only now remembering that bit. “I also want to see the body, before we do anything.”

“That might prove a bit difficult,” I admit. “I found him in the sewer.”

“The sewer?” John looks far more concerned and distressed at this. “Who would throw a dead soldier in the sewer? Where no one could find them, or mourn them-- that’s just awful!”

_ Does it truly matter where he was left?  _ I think, although I stop myself from speaking it. Knight was a comrade of John’s, and hearing of his inhumane discardment must be upsetting. “This man just killed a soldier about to protect our country,” I say instead, playing on my faux patriotism. “It’s obvious he has no grasp of compassion.”

He swallows hard, still taking in the news. “So, um… How do we get his body out, if he’s in the sewer?”

“Excellent question,” I admit, starting to walk towards the grated entrance again, and John follows suit. “For now, I’ll show you him in the position I first encountered him, I’ll leave the explaining to the authorities to you.”

The walk back to the sewer is silent, which is understandable. This is probably close to a funeral march in John’s eyes. ( _ There’s another blurry memory, walking beside a coffin to a grave. I don’t seem to be looking much at the coffin, more as scanning the crowd… Who’s dead? _ )

We reach the grate within a minute or two, and while I stride through the muck easily, John stays on dry land, looking displeased at the thought of stepping in it.

“Come on,” I sigh. “It’s hardly the worst you’ll deal with when you ship off.” 

He hardly looks convinced, but still starts to step through. His pretty complexion is starting to pale, probably from the stink of the mud. Oh, this won’t go well, I know it already.

Still, he asked to see the body, and I never go back on my word (apparently), and so I squeeze back through the thin grate. John stops at the bars, and looks skeptically at me. 

“Look, I know it’s not the most comfortable way in, but it’s the only way, alright?”

John makes a brave face and continues on. When we reach the gated entrance, I’m about to cram myself back past the bars, when John’s confused expression catches my eye.

“What?” I ask, a leg already through.

“Erm… It’s a door,” he say, giving me an odd look as he points to the hinges on my left, and when I look to the other side, I see that there’s a bolt across the gate, long rusted over.

“Oh,” I say. “That, ah… I didn’t notice that before.” How did I not notice that before? I smile sheepishly at him, stepping back as he undoes the bolt, and pulls the gate back. Although it does make a bone shuddering noise as it’s moved, it moves with a lot of ease, as if it’s been used often. We share a surprised look at that.

A gated door to a sewer is certainly strange enough, but adding that someone has apparently been  _ using _ this door often just adds more mystery to this. Although that could explain how the killers managed to get Henry’s body in here. I nod to John, and lead him into the tunnel silently, switching on my headlight. He follows, even more apprehensively and slowly than before.

We reach where I previously saw the body, and even from a distance I can still see the shadows of it. As we approach it, there’s a sharp gasp behind me, and I look to John, who has frozen stiff, his eyes wide and staring at the body.

“Oh my God,” he says in one quick breath, which is followed by another gasp, and exclamation. He’s starting to hyperventilate, this really won’t be good.

“John-” I try to speak up, but he stumbles, managing to grab a the wall before he falls. I rush forward and grip onto his shoulders. “John, I’ve got you.”

“He-- But, I just-- Oh God…” His eyes are as wide as saucers, unable to take his eyes off the form of his friend, his face turning from pink to white to green. Best to get him out of here before he vomits, in this tunnel, or worse, on my bare feet. (I keep all comments about how poor of a soldier he’ll be to myself. This is probably the first dead body he’s ever seen, after all, and it’s hardly a pretty sight.)

He’s still gripping hard onto the wall, and I have to physically pull him away. He stumbles into my arms stiffly, but it seems enough to get him out of his trance.

I manage to get him out of the tunnel, practically dragging him. It’s only when we’re a few feet away from the gate that his sense kicks in, and stumbles onto his own feet, rushing back into the lighted world. Once out, he stumbles and grips back onto the wall, keeling over and dry heaving immediately. Perfect timing, I think to myself as I step back.

Luckily, nothing of substance actually comes up, and he only heaves a few times, before leaning against the sewer wall and catching his breath.

“Believe me now?” he ask.

He turns to glare at me. “Yeah,” he mumbles, leaning back against the wall. He starts to compose himself, taking in a deep, shaky breath. “Although I still don’t know if you’re the one who did it.”

A logical suspicion, yet I still can’t help but feel insulted. I sigh, and take a step forward. “Look. You said that Henry was supposed to have shipped off to the front, didn’t you?” He nods. “Whoever killed him had to have the clearance to claim that he  _ was _ shipped off, otherwise, why would you all believe it? Someone high up in the military offices, probably. Do I look like someone who’s high up in the military chain?”

John pauses, taking in my appearance. Gaunt, barefoot, with a headlight strapped on my forehead. “No, probably not.”

Of course, having a high ranking officer as a murderer does make this much more dangerous, and harder to catch him, but I don’t mention this to John, and he doesn’t seem to think of it. 

After a few moments John manages to stand on his own, shakily, although he still looks quite pale. “W-what now?” he asks.

“Well, that’s up to you,” I say. “But I could need you, to help me solve this murder. You’d be incredibly valuable to this search.”

John’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head quickly. “What can I do?!” he insists, taking another sharp breath. “I’m just some private, I haven’t any experience! I’m just some miserable recruit!”

“You have access,” I tell him. The poor thing. “You’re on the inside, you can help me learn about what other secrets they’re keeping. You can find out where they hid him, if they’re hiding anything more.”

“But…” He looks frightened now. The insecure soldier appears on his face, and I can read everything in just a moment. He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing here, he isn’t sure if he’s doing the right thing by joining the war. 

He does not want to die.

“This is just as important as the front,” I tell him. “Out there, the Enemy is attacking our men, destroying our freedoms… And now someone in here is doing the same to them, just on our soil.”

This gives him pause, and his brow furrows. He stares down at his feet, and I can just barely hear him whisper, “I don’t want to just be a name in a memorial.”

“And I’ll do everything I can to keep you from becoming that,” I promise him, nodding carefully. My sincerity surprises even me.

He still looks unsure. I can’t blame him. I could still be a part of this, I could be a test, or I could be trying to lead him to his own death.

“Oi! Who’s down there?” a sudden shout comes from above, and we both freeze. “Watson? Is that you?”

John’s eyes bulge, and his mouth drops open. This is it for him. Despite what he wanted just a few moments ago, there is not time to decide. He must make his choice, now. Either turn me in, or join me, and go against the army, and perhaps even higher still.

For one long, single moment, I wonder if he’ll choose the former. I don’t have much to incite him with--

“Who the hell--” the voice calls out again, reeking of superiority. 

“Run,” John suddenly hisses, turning and pushing me. I immediately understand the move, and shove him back, pretending to try to fend him off. His gun appears again, pointed at me once more. 

“Meet me in St. James Park, dusk,” he says quietly, and then louder, “I found this man trying to break in!”

I don’t need any more encouragement, and quickly rush back into the tunnels, in the opposite direction as the body. John’s gun goes off and hits a wall behind me, close enough where I can feel the debris from the concrete falling onto my feet. Christ, I gasp, running faster as I hear the Superior’s voice outside. 

I continue running long past when the two voices quiet down, and finally have to slow to a stop. I grip the wall as I try to catch my breath, and work through everything that has just occurred.

After a few moments of silence, as I gain enough strength to stand back on my feet. I hear a sound, just around the corner. I halt, keeping absolutely still, except for my reaching hand, to turn off my headlight. It’s doubtful that anything in this tunnel will be benign, especially after my encounter with Knight.

The sound, which I place as footsteps, also stops. A few moments pass, during which I mentally search about my person, hoping to find some sort of a weapon that I can use. Save the headlamp, I have none. Bugger.

It also is obvious that flight is not an option either; given that it’s a tunnel, any footsteps will echo, and I have no idea where I am going. Perhaps I’d be able to sneak past whoever it is, if I tread slowly and quietly enough.

“Hello?” a voice calls out, just as I’m thinking this. Male, voice a bit higher pitched. It wavers a bit, sounds nervous. Whoever he is, he sounds like he hadn’t been expecting me… Not an ambush, then. 

Is he like me, then? Lost in the sewers? Perhaps he too has had his memory swiped, and was only unlucky enough to wake up here, instead of next to a warm home.

Or, he could be some sort of henchmen, one of Knight’s murderers, coming to collect the body.

Either way, he’ll be expecting a response now, listening for me. I curl a fist behind my back, in case I need to use it, and call back to him. “Yes, hello? Who’s there?”

Another beat of silence, as if he’s thinking through the question. “Um, Richard,” he finally answers. “And who are ye?” Even with just those few words his voice betrays a thick Irish accent.

“Edward,” I respond. A common name, unlikely to link me anywhere.

There’s a third pause, I hold my breath during it. “Ye aren’t going to kill me, are you, Edward?” he asks. 

I can’t help but chuckle at that. At least we aren’t going through boring formalities. “I wasn’t planning on it,” I admit. “Are you?”

“No. Never been good in a fight, too scrawny.”

He could be lying. His voice certainly isn’t cocky or self-assured enough to sound like someone who would fight here, however. I pause, thinking this through. If I turn on my light I will have an advantage, I will be able to see him without him seeing me, and will have a few moments to overcome him as he grows accustomed to the light. If he pulls out a weapon, I will be able to see it. Not exactly a survival plan, but it’s the best I’ve got.

I reach up and turn it on, revealing a small, unkempt man who shies away immediately from the harsh light, a curse under his breath. While he is recovering, I assess him quickly. Small, has sandy wild hair, with some grey mixed in, and days old stubble. He’s wearing a cardigan that’s too large for him and his outfit as a whole looks dirty. Probably a vagrant. Just as I look for any weapons hidden on his person he reaches into a pocket; I feel my body automatically lurch, and the panic doesn’t leave with the realisation that it’s only a torch. 

He turns on his light as well, I squint and step back, but don’t have the same adverse reaction as he did. Well, there goes the idea of an advantage. 

We both stand there for several moments, sizing each other up. He doesn’t look organized or steady enough to be a henchman of any sort, more like a vagrant who has wandered in here to escape the abuse of the city.

“What are you doing here?” I ask anyway, in case the answer is something vastly different than what I think.

“Hiding, aren’t you?” he responds, giving me a quizzical look.

The response only piques my curiosity. “Hiding from what?” 

He laughs at that. “From whatever is taking us off the streets,” he says, shaking his head. “I thought I was the last one, you know. It’s nice to see another dirty face.”

I blink. “Us?” I ask, confused as to why he’s added me in this equation. “The last what?”

He mirrors my confusion. “The last vagrant, obviously,” he says slowly, as if he thinks I won’t understand otherwise. I'm insulted in his insinuation for a few moments, before I remember my attire: the too small shirt and trousers that have probably been dirtied somewhat from going through the sewer. Calling me homeless isn't too big of a leap. 

“Someone’s been kidnapping vagrants?” I ask in astonishment. "Why the hell would anyone want to do that?"

"What, you don't know?" Richard asks, frowning and cocking his head. There is something off about his expression, but I can't quite lay a finger on it. 

"It's a… rather long story. Just assume that I'm absolutely ignorant on this matter." 

“Yeah, it’s been going on for months now,” he explains. “Everyone’s gone, you must’ve noticed. Here’s the only place that's safe.”

Now it’s my turn to chuckle softly. “Not as safe as you’d like. I’ve just found a body here.”

He blinks, and gawks at me. “What?”

“Not a vagrant,” I admit. “More a soldier, but… I’d still imagine that doesn’t bode well for us.”

He nods eagerly. “Yes, no, not at all.” He shakes his head, crossing himself quickly. “Blessed Mary, poor bloke, I’d hate to die here. No one would find you.”

I hum in agreement. “Which is why I was on my way out,” I say, nodding my head to my left. “Can you lead me to an exit? You can tell me what’s going on on the way.” I don’t like this plan, but Richard seems to know the sewers more than I do, and there’s an equal chance that he’ll kill me whether I leave or come with him.

Richard nods, starting to slosh through the water. “You first,” he insists.

I sigh, following him. “Well, there’s not much to that story.” But I do begin, running through the information I have so far as we walk through the tunnel. He cannot harm me with as little as I currently know, I think, and at this point he seems like he can be a helpful ally; he already knows more about this situation, and may have a better idea of what happened to me than I do.

Just to be on the safe side, however, I keep my hand in a fist, and tense in case I need to defend myself against him. I tell this man my story, or what little I know of it, and I let him lead me farther into the tunnels, having no idea where we will emerge.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Our Hero is not Killed, a Few Questions Are Answered, and We Go Back from Whence We Came

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. Oops! Life got busy, but I swear I've been working on this chapter the whole time. This is still very much a work in progress, so things change, I go back and change things, and I get stuck... Things like that. If it helps any, I've been really devoted to this story and have been doing everything I can to craft it as perfectly as I can. Anyway. Here it is!

My story does not take long, but we’re only travelling a few minutes longer, before Richard finds another set of rungs, leading up to a manhole.

We come up in a drafty, abandoned room. Cement walls, and boarded up windows that have been caved in are the only things inside, along with dust and dirt, probably from the various winds.

I can’t help but raise an eyebrow in surprise as I look around. “What on earth sort of sewer is this?” I ask. 

“Well, it’s not really a sewer,” Richard explains cheekily. “Back when the system was first being built someone made a different route. It was around the same time as the Underground construction too, and no one who approves maps would notice one track that barely doesn’t follow the others. You’ll notice this doesn’t have any connections to any actual water pipes, and it’s really more of a tunnel. It was used for black market things, trading of various contraband goods, including people, probably.”

I am suddenly struck with an odd sense of deja vu, although I cannot imagine why. Something about the sewer system triggers a thought in my memory, seeming surprisingly familiar. Did I know about the sewers? Why would I? Or, did I hit my head harder than I thought, and this is just a form of brain damage, from whatever was done to me?

Instead, I ask, “How do you know that?” Because it seems like a far more appropriate question.

He shrugs. “There are a few old men around here who know everything about this town,” he answers. 

I’m not satisfied with the answer he gives at all. “Like who?” I continue.

“Well, they’re all gone now. As I said, most all of us have been snatched up. Pretty clever, when you think about it. The general populace don’t care if we go missing, after all.”

I narrow my eyes at him. For a man who likes to talk, he’s rather bad at answering questions. “Who’s taking them? How do you know this?”

This seems to be the question he’s waiting for, as his entire body lurches, as if someone has just fired the starting shot in a race. "Because I've seen it happen," he says excitedly.

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?” I ask, not sure if I believe him. “Then what happened?”

“Well, one night I had my camp all set up in a little alleyway, and there were three other guys there. I didn’t know two of them real well, but this old loon, Jefferson, well, me and him were pretty close,” he starts, his voice taking on a dramatic tone. “And Jefferson, he was going on about how he could feel that something was going to happen tonight, he could feel it in his bones, but we all brushed him off. He was always shouting things like that, and we knew he was always wanting some attention when it came to that sort of thing.

“But then, later that night, when we all was asleep, I was tucked in the corner, behind a bunch of old blankets and tossed goods. I’ve always liked to be all nuzzled up to something when I sleep, even if it is only a pile of trash--”

“Get to the point,” I sigh, raising an eyebrow.

Richard pauses in his narrative, and gives me a look. “Not one for great literature, are you?” he asks with a shake of his head, and takes a moment to remember what he’d just told me. “Well, anyway, so we’re all sleeping, when suddenly I hear a crash. At first I think one of the boys hit his foot on something, but then  _ everything’s _ moving. There’re all these muffled shouts and then Jefferson starts screaming at the top of his damn lungs, like someone’s killing him!

“Now, I knew that whatever was going on, they didn’t know  _ I _ was there, because of all the stuff blocking me from view, probably, but I had to see what was happening! So I peeked out from behind the blankets, and I see these two, big burly men wrestling Jefferson to the ground! It wasn’t even a fair fight, no matter how much Jefferson hollered they kept their hands on him. The other two guys with us I couldn’t see, I think they must have knocked them out before they’d even woken up.

“And then suddenly Jefferson goes still, and one of these guys throws him over his shoulder, like he’s a doll, and walks off with his friend.  _ That’s _ when I noticed how nice they were dressed, especially for meeting hobos. They looked real official, like someone had sent them there to do this.”

“So what are you suggesting?” I ask with a frown. Richard looks disappointed that I haven’t appreciated his storytelling, but shakes his head.

“My theory? The government’s taking us.”

I scoff at the suggestion. “That’s ridiculous,” I say, shaking my head. “Why would the government be doing so?”

Richard shakes his head again. “How should I know?” he asks, and then pauses. “Although I have a few theories.”

There’s another stretch of silence, and I sigh inwardly. “Are you going to make me prompt you to tell me everything?” I ask in annoyance, and stuff my hands in my pockets.

Richard grins, and takes a step forward, as if he’s about to tell me a secret. I raise an eyebrow at him; it’s not as if anyone is going to overhear us in this sewer.

“I think… There are experiments going on,” he says softly, looking grim. “I mean, we all know that the Crown isn’t exactly the safe haven it claims to be, right? We’ve read the stories of what’s been done in the colonies. What’s stopping them from doing it to the citizens here?”

I’m about to dismiss this theory, when I realize that he’s right. Britain hardly had a clear conscience, and she regularly lets her more vulnerable citizens starve or go destitute in some other way without even a thought towards them. Actively harming them was only a slight stretch of the imagination.

“But what experiments?” I ask after a moment, still dazed after this thought. “Why would they be kidnapping people?”

“Well… There is a war on,” Richard reminds me, giving me a look as if I were an idiot. “It’s always a battle of who can cause the most damage on the front. But you have to practice whatever atrocity you’re going to commit, don’t you?”

I pause, and shake my head. Despite how ridiculous it all sounds, I can’t help but feel another sense of familiarity as Jim speaks. Once again I start to wonder if I was aware of this whole plot before my accident last night.

What if that was what why my memory was swiped?

Richard seems to notice my look. “I, erm, I’ve done a bit of snooping. It’s difficult, being on my own, and the enemy being the government and all, but I… I think I know who’s in charge of it all.”

“Who?” I ask.

Richard pauses, now looking more apprehensive than excited. “There are whispers around town, of a man. A high up government official, obviously, but he runs part of the war department, and I think that if anyone is orchestrating all of this, it’s him. His name is Mr. Homes, or something like that.”

The name causes a sudden piercing headache throughout my brain, and I clutch my head with a groan, doubling over. I swear the name means something, but everytime I think of it my mind sends another jolt of pain through me.

“Are you alright?” I hear Richard ask from above me, although his voice sounds like it's in a tunnel far away.

“Yeah, just… a headache,” I mutter, gritting my teeth. I suck in a breath, and try to work through the pain, think through its origins. It’s what worked last night, after all.

All of these sharp headaches have been related to my attack, when I had first woken up, and then later when I tried to remember what had occurred. But this information bears no immediate significance to the attack, does it? Why would I get a headache at the mention of a name?

Usually recollection is unconscious, I think. We are reminded of something, and without thought we immediately remember its importance, receive memories of why we would know of it. But all my memories are gone, or locked away somewhere, any recollection my mind would try to bring up would hit a wall, and given what could have been afflicted on me last night, it’s very reasonable that this reaction could cause sharp pain.

The small distraction causes the pain to subside slowly, until it calms to a dull ache. I open my eyes once more, and see Richard looking at me with concern.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s fading now,” I say, trying to pass it off as something mild. “Please, continue.”

He pauses, looking over me before speaking again. “Well, I think he’s the one behind all of this,” he repeats. “He’s part of the war department in the government, you know, the airheads who decide which soldiers die in which battles.”

“But why do you think it’s him? There have to be dozens of men on that department.”

“Because he’s the one who’s in charge of the artillery conference, where they figure out what weapons need to be used for their tactics,” Richard explains. “Or, at least it’s his name on some of the orders I’ve swiped.” He again smiles cheekily.

I’m silent for a moment, thinking through all of this. “I think I must have known him,” I say slowly. “The name seems familiar to me.”

Richard looks excited. “Do you think he has something to do with your memory going?” he asks. 

“Maybe, but why? He could have just killed me, like the rest of your friends.”

“Maybe--Maybe you figured out what he was doing. He had to keep you quiet, but you’re too important for him to completely eliminate. You don’t act like a vagabond at all, there must be another reason for it.”

I frown, furrowing my brow as I think. “Then who the hell am I? Why am I so important?”

Richard shrugs impassively. “I wouldn’t know,” he says. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

I sigh, shaking my head as once again I try to think through this. A small part of me remains incredulous. Why am I standing here, listening to some vagrant buffoon? He could be leading me along, or have created all of this in my head.

But what of Knight, found dead in the sewer after he was supposed to be in Enemy Land? And all of the familiar thoughts I’ve had, the headache, it would be far too much of a coincidence. It has to have some truth, I think.

“I think you may be wrong on that count,” I finally say, rubbing my temple. “I think you’ve given me an important start to solving all of this.”

Richard blinks, looking at me in confusion. “What are you thinking?” he asks.

“I did know something about this, you’re right. That’s the only reason why this all could have happened to me,” I begin, starting to walk back along the sewer, leaving Richard to follow me as I follow out my thought. “So that means it’s all still in here--” I tap my head, “--which means we must be able to find it again. We have to stop all of this, Richard. They’ve already probably begun testing it on our own soldiers after they ran out of vagrants; we need to stop them before they do anything more.”

Richard’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “How?” he insists. “What do you mean, they’ve probably begun testing soldiers?”

“The man I found dead earlier today! Tell me, how the hell does a soldier who was supposed to be out in the front end up dead in a sewer, if the men who said he was gone didn’t have something to do with it?” I exclaim.

Richard’s expression changes from bewildered to incredulous. “You’re mad,” he mutters. “How the hell are you planning on taking ‘em on? They’re the bloody  _ government _ !”

That is a good question, I have to admit to myself. “I don’t know,” I shrug. “But someone wants me to figure this out. They led me down here. And at one point I had a plan for it. I’ll just have to try to remember.”

Richard pauses, and for a single moment I see the expression of fear flash before his eyes. “And until then?”

I purse my lips, and just as I think through the question, I hear a voice from far behind us.

“Hey! What are you two doing here?” the voice calls, echoing against the walls. 

“Shit,” Richard mutters, immediately tensing. “Looks like your officials are combing the sewers for you now.” And with that, he takes off with a run down the sewer.

“Oi! Did you hear me?!” The voice calls out again. Hardly something I need to be asked twice, I think, following Richard’s lead and running as fast as I can along the water.

I can hear the officer start to run behind me, shouting for me to stop, and farther off I hear a dog. Dammit.

Despite how exhausted my legs and lungs are, I keep running as fast as I can, and rip the headlight off my head and throw it into the water, as I don’t have time to pause and turn it off. It’s a painful move, but necessary nonetheless..

I rush as quick as I can through the dark, keeping one hand along the wall, and the moment there’s a fork I swerve quickly into the new direction, hoping it will cause enough confusion.

It manages to work. There’s only one officer, and he decides to run after Richard, and the dog with him does not seem to notice my scent disappearing down the other tunnel. By now my scent is probably akin to the rest of the sewer.

I try not to think too much on that idea.

By now my legs feel like jelly, and I stumble back the way I came when I’m certain the coast is clear. And as I heave broken breaths, one question runs through my head.

Now what?

For now, the only answer I can think of for that question is to return to Mrs. Hudson’s home. I still have no other place to go, at least not until John said to meet him.

Besides, I think I’d like a bit of the relaxation the flat provides so easily about now.

Unfortunately for me, that means wandering back around in the dark once more, until I find the rope from before. Luckily all the turns I made are implanted in my head (perhaps because all the other memories are gone. More room for the trivial), and I manage not to make a long turn. There are so many variant tunnels here, that one could wander around in for days. Despite myself I wonder if many people have gotten lost and departed here over the decades. Richard mentioned this being a part of the black market, perhaps some thief had gotten lost in this labyrinth, or, even worse to think about, some escaped slave had rushed down the wrong path to freedom. Hopefully not, I think with a shudder, as I walk past some stinking mass that I would prefer not to think too much about, with that in mind.

I just about yell in relief when I finally find the rungs from the hospital, and along with it the twine. A new burst of energy rushes through me at the thought of being out of here, and I rush down, following the twine all the way back to the flat.

When I reach the end, it suddenly occurs to me that it’s odd for such a civilian building like this to have these rungs. It’s only been here and the hospital that I’d seen them.

A previous owner of the flat must have been some proprietor in the black market trade, I reason. The connection with the hospital clicks in rather easily, dozens of painkillers and expensive equipment would be very desirable for contraband sale.

I begin to make my way up the rungs, considering the history, and flashing back on what led me down here. Someone knew I would be in that flat, and that someone was up in the kitchen to tempt me down here.

The key to all of this must lie in the sewers. Everywhere I go, everything that happens to me, it all keeps connecting back to those tunnels.

What the hell could be going on here?

I reach the top of the rungs, and I can see small cracks of light through the borders of the trapdoor. With some careful balancing, I manage to push up on the loose cement, and push it off to the side to escape back into the flat.

I climb into the kitchen, and glance around. The room, of course, looks just the same as it did this morning, and last night. It’s odd to be back here, given how much I’ve learned in the past twelve hours.

The room is empty, and I push the tile back into its proper place, once again wondering if Mrs. Hudson is aware of what is under her flat. Soon a second question comes to me.

Is she a part of all this?

No, that can’t be. For starters, she would not have to be counting ration cards to make a roast like she was last night if she were part of some system below her, and besides, Richard made it sound like the market there had long since been abandoned. I surely would have seen  _ something _ , if it wasn’t.

She could be a part of the conspiracy that’s killing vagrants and erased my memory, a small part of me whispers, and I stop for a moment, running through the possibility in my head. No… She can’t be… She was so kind and welcoming last night, how could she possibly be a part of this?

Ah, but that is what makes her so likely a suspect, a small voice in my head reminds me. It would be a perfect set up. An old woman, helping a young man who has nowhere else to turn to, all so they could keep an eye on him. A sinking feeling fills my stomach at the thought. 

_ Trust no one _ , someone in a distant memory hisses at me. I must be more careful around her, from now on. And at the current moment, would it even be a wise idea to stay here? Or would it be better to try my luck on the street, as cold and dangerous as it would be out there?

Before I can make that decision, I hear Mrs. Hudson’ footsteps from down the hall, and she’s in the kitchen before I can hide anywhere. She jumps and lets out a shout at the sight of me, as it dawns on me how disheveled I must look currently.

“What? How have you gotten there?” she asks, still seemingly in shock. “I checked on-- oh Lord in heaven, you smell  _ gastly _ ! And what on earth have you dragged in?!” Her gaze goes down to my feet, and I glance down as well. It seems that I've tracked in all of the muck my bare feet accumulated in the sewer, into her flat, I realise, wincing to myself.

“Ah…” My mind scrambles, trying to think of an answer all while also looking for any tells on her face that her words weren’t sincere. There’s no way out of this one, I’ll simply have to play dumb for the time being. “I was up before you, and I left, not wanting to leech off your hospitality any more, but, um… I remembered that I’ve got nowhere else to go.” I look down at my feet, hoping this adds to the pitying story.

Mrs. Hudson’s face softens, and she sighs, tutting. “Well, that’s why I offered to let you stay here, you know,” she reminds me. “You go into the bathroom now, and clean yourself up, then clean up the floor, and I’ll fix you up something to eat.”

I wince at her conditions, but nod, keeping my reservations to myself. The look on her face immediately tells me that I have no hope of convincing her to be lenient on me. Of course she'd expect me to clean this up, and on an empty stomach too! 

When my look of piteous remorse seems to do nothing for her, I give up, and walk back into the bathroom, keeping my head down.

“And don’t step on the carpet!” she calls after me as I walk down the hall. I wrinkle my nose in distaste, and several similar experiences through the years flood me. I stop walking, concentrating on that feeling, when they were.

I’m a boy. Young. Stern words from a woman in uniform. But as I attempt to grasp at the details, they all begin to fade away once more.  _ Dammit _ . It’s only a generic memory. Still nothing concrete, still nothing that gives me any idea of what my identity is.

Unless… I pause as I turn on the water in the tub. Most boys aren’t scolded by women in uniforms, are they? She must have been a maid, which means I must have grown up comfortably. At least in a middle class home. It’s not much of a clue, there still are thousands of boys who grew up with a maid throughout the city, not to mention how many thousands more if I had grown up outside of London. But it is something, I remind myself. At this point any clue, however broad, is a welcome one.

I wash myself as best I can, vigorously trying to get that awful stench out of my skin, but I believe it’s implanted itself in my nostrils permanently. I settle for rubbing soap all over my feet and legs until they’re pink, and pressing the lavender scent to my nose to try to neutralize the other smell. 

I dress more slowly, now more than a little suspicious of what Mrs. Hudson’ alignment may be. For now, I decide that there is no way, or use for me to figure it out and turn against her: whether or not she’s on my side, she is the only person I currently have, and if she is truly just a benign old lady, I will have made a grave mistake. For now, I’ll simply play dumb, and try to glean whatever I can from her. At least it’s unlikely that she will try to poison me at this point, I remind myself. She believes that she has my trust at this point, after all. I come out of the bath, and head into the kitchen, where again warm, delicious smells greet me. Any resolve that remained to stay strong against this new place disappears at that smell, and instead I think of what she could be making, deciding to figure out what her true intent is when I’m full. 

I didn’t eat breakfast this morning, did I? That does explain quite a bit.

I enter the kitchen once more, and settle down with the meal she’s made me, watching her as she cleans the dishes. I can’t help but feel indebted to her. How could someone who brought me in from the cold be sinister, or against me? 

She reminds me of a mother, someone who takes care of the ones who need her, with no questions asked. Could that sort of sentiment be faked?

I hope not, I think to myself as I finish the meal. It’s as fantastic as I thought it would be. If she does turn out to be some sort of spy… Another wave of betrayal washes over me, and I keep my eyes averted as I stand.

Even as I put the plate away in the sink, I can feel Mrs. Hudson still watching me. By the way she keeps staring at me, I can tell she wants me gone so that she can go through her silver drawers to make sure I haven’t stolen anything.

Respecting her wishes, and also knowing there’s no way she’ll let me out of the flat currently, I head upstairs, back to the room that was prepared for me. 

In the light, it looks different. Last night I had only seen it as a convenience, a bed… But now I can look through the entire room, and see that I was wrong about my first observation that there was no personal effects. There are a few things, but they are scattered, small. A hat, resting on the dresser, for instance. I approach it, and lift it off its resting place. Dust tumbles from the rim, falling onto the clean ring. The rest of the drawer is covered in at least half a centimeter of dust.

I can't help but doubt that they would have been able to fabricate this scene. All the effects in this room feel  _ real _ , full of sentiment and value, with things that would not have factored into a forger’s mind if he was recreating it. A few coins, books with worn spines on the shelf, things that reek of everyday normalcy that could not be replicated. It’s as if someone lived here for years, and just left this morning.

By now, though, I’m unable even to take that for granted. If some entity (or, perhaps even more nefarious, the  _ government _ ) is powerful enough to kidnap an entire group of people and stash them away somewhere… What  _ can’t _ they do?

Most nagging still is where I fit into this. Who the hell was I? Why erase my memories? Was I just some poor bloke they decided to experiment on? No, that would be far too close of a coincidence, and the feeling of familiarity as Richard told his story creeps over me again. No, I knew what this was. They chose me in particular.

Perhaps I worked for them, I consider. Or I was an investigator of some sort. How else would I know this plot, unless I’d gotten too close? 

Which does not bear well for Richard, I think. If these men do find him, I don’t think they’ll enjoy him blabbing their secrets to just anyone in the sewer.

But, with any luck, I’ll be able to stop them before they get to him.

After all, I infiltrated this government plot once before, what’s to stop me from doing it again?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER 5: In Which Our Hero Sees a Familiar Face, Makes an Escape, and The Plot Grows More Insidious

After wandering throughout the sewers the entire day, traveling through London’s topside is jarring. The sun has not quite set yet, although it’s well on its way to, and there’s a small evening breeze as I walk. On any other day, to any other person, this would be a lovely walk.

But it’s jarring, mostly because this is the first time I’ve ever walked the streets of London, in memory. But I can  _ remember _ , or, at least, as I walk past the Victorian buildings, I’m hit with that familiarity that I have grown to hate. I once knew these sights, and what would normally be a comforting feeling of awareness is now the frustrating sense of deja vu, with no way to pull the other memories out.

Another gust rustles the trees, and I pull the too-small-jacket closer to me.

While I had been resting earlier in the afternoon, Mrs. Hudson had come in, with my clothes from last night, washed and folded in her arms.

“I tried my best to clean them up,” she said, putting them on the bed. “Your shoes, however, I think are past saving.” 

I looked over the shoes she had brought in as well, and had to agree with her assessment. They were leather, and wherever I was, I had gotten them wet and dirty. The water had already warped the leather and stained it, leaving them looking a mess.

Shame, though. They looked expensive.

Examining the other clothes myself, the shirt, which looked like it was once purple, is also destroyed, with tears from the collar down to the sleeves. They looked deliberate, like they were made with a knife.

The trousers looked salvageable, enough to wear again, at least. I change into them, and after careful deliberation, I put on the ruined shoes as well, figuring I’d much prefer those to being barefoot once more.

Now, though, as I walk down the London boulevard, listening to that maddening ‘squeak’ each time I step on my left foot, I’m reconsidering.

It takes me a while to reach the park John had suggested, but surprisingly I find that I have no trouble reaching it. It’s as if each street in London is already known to me. (Was I a cab driver? They have to memorize every street. But no, that wouldn’t make sense. Middle class boys don’t become cab drivers. Do they?)

By now the sun has begun its descent, and while there are one or two families in the park to watch, for the most part it’s empty, making the task of finding John incredibly easy. I set eyes on him very quickly, and walk over to greet him.

He’s pacing by a bench, proving he can’t sit still well. Although he is now in civilian attire, he still has his arms crossed behind him in a military pose, and he has ramrod straight posture. A soldier through and through by now, I think.

The sound of my squeaking shoes alerts him, and he turns around quickly, his face softening when he sees that it’s me.

“Edward! Good,” he sighs. “I was a bit worried you weren’t going to show.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t quite give me a specific time,” I remind him. “You only said at dusk.”

He blinks, and purses his lips. “Oh. Right,” he says, his cheeks reddening slightly.

There’s a pause, one that lasts for about a beat too long, and I clear my throat. “I hope I didn’t get you into too much trouble for leaving your post,” I say, which I sincerely do.

John glances up again, and a small smile touches his lips. “Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head. “Actually, I, er, sort of told them that I caught sight of you and went to investigate what you were doing, as I figured you were up to no good. And given that they assigned only me this afternoon, they couldn’t quite lecture me about leaving the post abandoned without backup, hm?” He looks perhaps far too proud of yourself for this. “But, that, ah, might mean you can’t go back to that part of the compound, in case anyone recognizes you. Sorry.”

So he can lie too. Very impressive, I think as a grin grows. “Not at all. That was very smart thinking.” John perks up at the statement. “And did you manage anything else?”

“I tried,” John says quickly. “I went back to the hospital after my shift, and asked some of the doctors if I could look through some of their records to study, because I was at medical school before I signed up and I want to be able to know some treatments for war injuries--” he cuts himself off, realizing that he’s blathering. “Anyway, they wouldn’t let me see all of what I wanted, but I did notice on some of the sign up sheets they had that there are a few weird injuries-- like, some things you’d expect from the front, but they didn’t quite make sense. One report was a man who had internal bleeding, and everything that you’d expect from say, a bullet wound, but he hadn’t been shot!”

I listen carefully, taking note especially of his excited gaze. The most captivating thing he’s said so far is that he went to medical school before registering. It makes sense, his sense of calmness, especially in his steady hands. The other news is interesting too, I suppose.

I nod, working through it all. “Was this man also supposed to be at the front?” I ask, suddenly realizing that I’ve started to walk as my shoe begins to squeak again. John follows me.

“Um, I think so. I didn’t see if it mentioned where he got the injury,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. 

“What about where he trained?”

John shrugs, his face falling slightly. “It didn’t say that, either,” he mumbles. “But, I mean, it has just been the first day!” His voice has turned defensive, as if I’ve accused him of being inadequate.

“I’m very aware of that,” I say, raising an eyebrow over at him. “And it is a good start. We know that Knight wasn’t just an isolated case, then. The conspiracy is growing.”

John pauses, and I can again almost hear the cogs in his brain working. “Growing?” he echoes. “This is a conspiracy now?”

Oh, right, John doesn’t know about Richard, or what he’s told me. “Some new information has come to light,” I explain. “Remember how I mentioned that whoever did this was probably high up in the official chain? I have more reason to believe that now. I think it goes beyond just a fringe, crazed seragent. It’s a group. Probably very powerful. They might even be in charge of the government, for all we know.”

John’s eyes widen, and he tries very hard to stay grim, but an intrigued smile tugs at his lips. “Why would they do that?” he asks. “Why would anyone kill their own men?”

I shrug. “They have a war to win. They’re already perfectly fine with these soldiers dying in ditches away from their home, why would they care particularly if they died here?”

John chews on his lips. “How have they managed to do this anyway?” he asks. “It isn’t physically possible, to make someone have a bullet wound without a real bullet, is it?”

“Apparently it is,” I tell him.

John falls silent for a few moments again, his excitement dampening slightly. “We’re dealing with masterminds,” he mused aloud. “Not just some insane group, but… they know how to do all these things that shouldn’t be possible.”

That is very true. A group that knows how to clean someone’s mind, and give a healthy young man a heart attack, is far more advanced than anything either of us has ever seen before, and if they can do that, they’re probably far more skilled in other aspects as well. I hadn’t considered this aspect seriously before, but perhaps I should have.

“Well, we’ll just have to find some weakness about them,” I say, furrowing my brow as I think. “After all, I did get close to them before. I just need to find a way to access those memories again.”

John glances up at this remark. “You did?” he asks. “Where do you fit in? You said that you don’t know who you are earlier, but what does that mean? What does that have to do with anything?” 

“I mean that I really couldn’t tell you anything about myself,” I say, unable to help my own lips curving into a smile now. “I have no memory beyond last night. Almost complete amnesia, nothing’s up here.” I tap my useless head.

John’s eyes widen now. “Wow,” he murmurs. “Nothing at all? You just woke up with your name and nothing else?”

“Basically,” I shrug. “Occasionally I get small images, but I haven’t been able to piece together much. I am able to remember things when I see them, but not before then.” 

John regards me again, as if he’s looking for some clue on my body. “Why would they have erased your memory?” he asks. “It doesn’t seem like that would be beneficial to them. Why didn’t they just kill you like they did to Henry?”

That’s another thought I hadn’t seriously considered before. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t think I was just some soldier they experimented on, military formations aren’t familiar to me. But I believe that I could have been investigating them, or was somewhat involved, and got too close.” I scowl as I contemplate this bit. “Perhaps they think I’m special, they wanted to mess with me instead of dealing with me outright.” As this purgatory of not remembering, only knowing that I was aware of this beforehand, seems like a fate worse than death.

“So you think you were an investigator? Or a spy?” John asks, his expression turning boy-like for a moment.

I shrug once more. “I’m not sure about a spy, but, perhaps,” I tell him. “I really could not tell you anything. I don’t know.”

“That must be frustrating,” he murmurs.  _ What an understatement _ . “Two unsolvable mysteries at the same time. It would drive me insane.”

“It has only been a day, it may do so to me in due time.”

John slows to a stop. For once his face is not an open book to me, and I stop as well, waiting for him to tell me what’s on his mind. I glance out towards the street, where an expensive black car drives by. Odd, I think to myself, this neighbourhood seems far too middle class for that vehicle, but perhaps some bachelor splurged for it.

“How far do you think this goes?” John asks finally, breaking me from my thoughts. “Or, more specifically, how do you think they pick soldiers?”

Ah, now I can see it. He’s worried that this will happen to him. “I don’t know,” I’m forced to say, because I don’t. “If it is a consolation, it probably is unlikely that they will choose you, given that statistically they would have to send the majority of--”

John groans, sounding almost annoyed, and I blink in surprise. I was not expecting that. “I don’t quite care about statistics,” he mutters. “I don’t want to die in some weird laboratory! I don’t want my friends to go out that way either. I want to know why they’re choosing the ones they are, so I can avoid it, and make sure my mates don’t end up there either!”

His tone is biting, almost angry, and I’m left looking at him in shock.  _ John Watson has a temper _ , I log somewhere in the back of my brain. Another impressive attribute. 

“I’ll look into it,” I tell him. “I’ll look through the records and see how many men this has happened to.”

John raises an eyebrow, some residue frustration left on his expression. “How will you do that? I didn’t have clearance, you sure as hell won’t either.”

“I’ll find a way,” I promise. At the very least, I know a secret way into the hospital.

John doesn’t look so convinced, and I try not to feel insulted by the lack of trust. He sighs, stuffing his hands in his pockets and turning away for a moment.

I follow his gaze, and something left on the bench beside us catches my attention. It’s a newspaper, pressed against the iron arm rest in the wind, but something on the front page causes me to stop. I furrow my brow, and walk quickly over to it. John at first does not notice, but he cuts himself off from whatever he’s started saying when he realizes that I’m no longer paying attention. I grab the paper and glance over the headline, which is in large letters across the top:

_ “FAMED JOCKEY VICTOR TREVOR MISSING: LAST SEEN BEFORE MONDAY MEET” _

Underneath is a picture of who I assume is Victor Trevor: a long, thin face, with a bright smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes, and even underneath his polo helmet messy curls spill out.

Once more familiarity washes over me, and a headache is starting again.

John looks at the paper, then me. “I heard about that. I don’t watch racing much, but my commander does. The way he disappeared is apparently incredibly mysterious, he--”

“I think I knew him,” I say slowly, still not quite paying attention to whatever John is saying.

John looks over me. “Maybe you watched racing?” he suggests. “He’s quite famous in that world.”

Yes, that makes sense, I think. I remember being at a track, watching the horses run. But I remember boredom in that memory.

_ “Must you seduce every man you meet?!”  _ a voice suddenly hisses in my mind, triggering another memory. A hotel room, Victor Trevor, his blond curls against the wall and his face gazing up at me while he unbuttons his shirt. He looks out of breath, as if he’s ran a marathon. Then he kisses me. Hands on me. Undoing my trouser buttons.

Oh.

“Got it?” John asks, seeing the realization on my face.

“I think so,” I assure him. “Must’ve… run into him at a charity event.” I wince at how forced that sounds, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“Charity? You were the type of bloke that went to charities?” John looks over me with a disbelieving expression. I can’t blame him.

“Apparently,” I say, shrugging as casually as I can. A man I spent the night with has gone missing. Something else connected with me, all of these strings are too strung together to be coincidences.

“You think his disappearance is related to all this?” John asks. He’s a quick one. “But he doesn’t have anything to do with the military. Why would they go after a jockey? Especially if you just happened to meet him once?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit.

John’s started talking once more, probably voicing his disbelief, but again I stop listening. My attention instead lands on the black car I saw earlier, rolling down the street once more. It’s going far slower than what would be expected. 

And right now, there’s only two people who could possibly be of interest in this park.

“Someone’s following us,” I hiss to John, nodding over to the car. His eyes widen, and he starts to turn his head to look.

“Don’t!” I say quickly, my mind whirling as I try to think of a way out of this. “Stay calm. I don’t know how much they’ve seen, they went by much quicker earlier.” I flip through the newspaper again, keeping my back to the street. “Walk to the nearest pub, not home. Stay there for a while and then get a cab to take you home. If you panic, they’ll know that you’re up to something.”

John nods, his eyes still wide. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” I insist, starting to fold up the newspaper. “Find out what you can. I’ll meet you outside your barracks when I can.” There isn’t time to come up with a precise meeting date. Not when the longer I stay here, the more John is put in danger. They’re obviously after me, but if they get a close enough look at John that will put him on the front lines of this too.

His mouth opens for another question, but it’s already been too long. I put the newspaper back on the bench and start to walk away. He seems to pick up the cue, and out of the corner of my eye I see him start to walk another direction.

Just as I thought, the black car follows me instead of John. I duck into a side street, where I see it turn the corner as well. It pulls up near me, and the back window begins to roll down.

Despite my own advice to John, this jolts me. I am not in any hurry to have a repeat of whatever occurred to me two nights ago, and just as someone starts to lean out the window I break into a sprint for the third time today. 

I can hear shouting, the only thing I catch is a ‘Mr. Homes’ (have I already alerted the top to my meddling?), which only makes me run faster. The car has speed, but I know these streets better than them.

I turn right, then right again, then halfway down this block I duck into the dead end. I can hear the car screeching as it takes the second turn, which means I only have a few moments.

I catch sight of a fire escape, and lunge for it, managing to drag the ladder down just enough to pull myself onto it, despite how much my lungs and arms want to give up. I collapse on the first landing, pulling the ladder up just as the car rolls by. By now it’s started to get dark, and they don’t have time to examine the alley.

Even still, I stay where I am for several minutes before making my way back onto the ground. Either those following me have assumed I’m ahead somewhere, or they’ve given up. For once I’m not itching to know which guess is right.

I walk as quickly as I can back to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, jumping at about every noise, and not stopping until I’m back inside the warm home.

* * *

 

The rest of the night is restless, as I either pace, lie sleepless in bed, or succumb to the terrors of whatever dreams are still lost in my head.

It’s the following morning when Mrs. Hudson finally hands me some pound notes and tells me to buy new clothes.

“All the things I have for you look a bit too small,” she mentions. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything in your size.”

I take the notes happily, having thought the same thing myself. Although it is a bit odd that she has clothes that are anywhere near my size to begin with, but I don’t mention this, as she quickly turns away after handing me the money. Whatever the reason, she doesn’t wish to talk about it. It seems that this is another mystery I’ll have to solve without any help.

There aren’t any black cars following me this morning, and once I am dressed in some new, albeit lesser quality clothes and shoes, I head off towards the hospital. I’ve tried to think of how to go forward from here, and how to get the information that I need to solve this, as John noted last night, there isn’t really a way I can do so legally. 

But there isn’t much time for an elaborate ruse to be set up, each day spent wasted is another day this conspiracy continues on, another day that my attackers can watch me struggle and gloat. So I’ll use whatever advantage I have, which at this point is just one: the nurse I met yesterday in the hospital. She was easily manipulated, after all, and if I prod her in just the right way, I think I can make her be more amenable to letting me see the documents.

The hospital is in a bit of a flurry as I walk in, nurses moving quickly, looking through charts, checking in on the patients that line the wall. There’s a buzzing as nurses and doctors talk, and a few groans and sobs break through the air from the soldiers in their varying degrees of pain.

Everyone being so preoccupied gives me an opportunity to slip by, and I do my best to ignore the desperate sounds of the injured patients as I walk through the entry room and halls, trying to find the nurse from before. It’s more difficult than I had expected, as at least a third of the women here have similar builds and hair. A few of them give me odd looks, but they all are too busy to question or report me. 

Then, finally, I catch sight of her, in one of the quieter wards. She’s standing with something in her arms again, and by the time I see her, she’s already seen me. Her lips are pursed and her eyes are narrowed, and before I can even call out or approach her she’s already gotten to me, and she grabs my arm with her free hand. She pulls me into the personnel hallway, which is almost completely empty.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses. “Why the hell do you keep turning up here?”

She’s far angrier than I thought she would be. “I’m doing an investigation,” I say very lowly, in case someone else comes along and sees us. “It’s on this hospital, and--”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?” she scoffs. “You don’t look anything like an officer, or any sort of investigator, snooping around where you aren’t even supposed to be!”

I raise an eyebrow, looking over her. She remembered me, I probably took up more in her mind than she would care to admit. “You checked the stocks after I left, didn’t you?” I note with a slow nod. “If you did, you must have noticed that nothing was missing.” Her brow furrows even more. Oh. Some was. That complicates things in getting her trust. “How much was missing? It couldn’t have been a lot, you would have reported it, and me, in that case.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “What does that matter?”

I grimace, but stop for a moment. If she truly believed that I had taken the equipment, why would she then have taken me here? Why wouldn’t she have called a supervisor, or had me reported? “You don’t believe I took the stock.”

She swallows, and nods slowly. She looks a bit disappointed, she probably hoped I wouldn’t guess that, and she could have a bit of an upper hand as I squirmed. “I think you would be an idiot if you did, given how conspicuous you are,” she admits. “But I know you’re up to something, although I don’t know if it’s to help or hurt the hospital.”

“Help!” I insist. She doesn’t look like she believes me. “Look,” I continue. “There’s something happening here. You’ve noticed it yourself, I’m sure. Soldiers coming in with injuries that don’t make sense, or that don’t seem to exist. You’ve seen this, right?”

She doesn’t answer, but the look on her face tells me that yes, she knows what I’m talking about. “I’m trying to figure out what’s being done to them.”

She bites her lip. “Trauma does a lot to a man…” she says quietly, as if reciting some prayer from memory. 

I scoff. “Yes, but it doesn’t cause you to start bleeding as if you’ve been shot,” I remind her. “Listen, erm…” 

“Molly,” she reminds me, her voice on edge once more.

“Right. Molly. Listen, Molly, there’s something happening here. Trauma and psychosomatic injuries could explain one man’s plight, but not multiple cases,” I insist. “There’s something about these soldiers in particular, they have to have some similarity! I want to look at their records -- I  _ need _ to look at their records! Whether it’s where they were stationed or trained or even where they grew up, I need to figure out why they’re being chosen!”

Molly stares at me, her eyes wide and her entire expression incredulous. “You want me to give you patient records?” she asks. “Do you realize how many rules I would be breaking by doing that?”

She hasn’t flat out refused, or thrown me out yet. She’s a bit too boring and eager to please for that to begin with, but it is still a good sign. “I do realize that. But I’ll do everything I can to keep you out of the line of fire. And I know that you’ve wondered the same thing about them. I at least need their names. Please. I’m trying to stop more of these things from happening, but I need information to do that!”

Her defenses are starting to fall, but she’s still holding on, much to my annoyance. “Line of fire?” she repeats. “What on earth are you talking about? What’s going on?!”

“I don’t know! That’s what I’m trying to find out!” I say, hearing an edge grow on my own voice. What sort of a question is that? “But I know it’s big. Whatever is making soldiers land in the hospital or morgue without any true cause is going to be big!”  _ Obviously. _

Her eyes are wide, and I can see a part of her believing me, but she still does not relent. “And you expect me to put myself at risk?” she asks.

She’s more stubborn than I thought she would be. I sigh, and try a new tactic. “I know you want to help me,” I continue, reaching into new territory with this. “You’re here because you hope that another nurse took care of your husband, you treat each man here like he is your husband.” She draws back; I’ve obviously hit a nerve, but I keep going. “Would you really turn your back on these men, and your husband, now that they need help? What kind of a wife are you, to abandon your husband’s compatriots because you’re frightened about a volunteer job?”

Her entire body is stiff, and she stares at me so coldly, that for a moment I think she’s going to hit me. Her eyes, which are set like stone on my face, flicker quickly, and suddenly she grabs my shirt and pulls me to her, and kisses me hard on the mouth.

I let out a strangled noise of surprise, but before I even have a chance to shove her away from me, the door behind us opens, and heavy footsteps echo through the hallway. Too heavy to be a nurse.

“Hooper!” he barks out, and I recognize the voice from the one I heard giving orders yesterday. At his shout, Molly pulls away from me, a flush on her cheeks, and an embarrassed look on her face as she glances up to the commander.

I turn to face him as well, I imagine with a bewildered expression. He’s a large, late middle-aged man, completely bald, but a bushy, greying moustache sprouts under his nose. Despite his older look, his muscles from a lifetime of service are still very obvious under his uniform, and a white scar snakes out from underneath his collar and up his neck. He’s seen war, and has almost been lost to it countless times, that much is probably clear to anyone. His grey eyes are cold and calculating, no warmth in them as he looks at Molly.

“You know you aren’t allowed to bring boys into the hospital,” he practically growls, and I can’t help but shiver at the sound. “I’m very disappointed in you, I had expected more professionalism out of you, of all people.”

“I’m sorry, Col. Moran,” she says sheepishly, and I turn to glance at her with bewilderment. What? “It won’t happen again. I swear.”

The colonel narrows his eyes at her, and then glares at me, and nods tersely. “It had better not,” he says, and grabs my shoulder in an almost vice like grip. “If you want to wait for her, wait outside.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, although my voice comes out to almost a squeak, much to my embarrassment. He doesn’t seem to want to let me get out on my own, though, as he practically drags me out. Molly follows after us.

“I’ll give you your gift after my shift,” she says to me, quietly, although there’s not much chance for secrecy when Col. Moran is still eyeing me with contempt. A small feeling of relief and accomplishment blossoms in my stomach at her statement, though, taking over a bit of the territory of nervousness and fright over whatever this man would wish to do with me if he had the chance.

When we’re onto the street again, he shoves me, and I stumble, but manage to avoid falling.

“I know boys like you,” he snarls. “You’re the type to convince good girls to break rules for you, just so you can have a night of fun, huh? Well I’m on to you. If I see you around here again, trust me when I say you won’t be as pretty when I’m done with you.”

His threat triggers another memory, of a man slamming me against a wall. He’s taller than me (but I think I’m smaller), and has the same face shape as me. He yells something I don’t quite catch, and I shut my eyes tightly, as if that will keep me from hearing him.

Back in the present, Col. Moran stalks off into the hospital, and I can see Molly as the door opens, looking at me with a bit of guilt in her eyes, before it slams shut.

Maybe she isn’t as boring as I thought.


End file.
